“You will?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Well, then — Are you going to explain why?”
“Certainly,” said Alleyn. And did.
When he had finished Troy covered her face with her hands. It was an uncharacteristic gesture. She turned away to the windows. Dr. Carmichael looked from her to Alleyn and left the studio.
“I wouldn’t have had this happen,” Alleyn said, “for all the world.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” she mumbled into his sweater and helped herself to his handkerchief. “It’s nothing. It’s just the fact of that room along there. Off the landing. You know — behind the locked door. Like a Bluebeard’s chamber. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s kind of got me down a bit.”
“I know.”
“And now — Maria. Going in there. Damn!” said Troy and stamped. “I’d got myself all arranged not to be a burden and now look at me.”
“Could it be that you’ve done a morsel too much self-arranging and I’ve done a morsel too much male chauvinism, although, I must say,” Alleyn confessed, “I’m never quite sure what the ladies mean by the phrase. Have a good blow,” he added as Troy was making gingerly use of his handkerchief. She obeyed noisily and said she was feeling better.
“What would Br’er Fox say to me?” she asked and answered herself. Alleyn joined in.
“ ‘We’ll have to get you in the Force, Mrs. Alleyn,’ ” they quoted in unison.
“And wouldn’t I make a pretty hash of it if you did,” said Troy.
“You’ve done jolly well with the half-burnt envelope. Classic stuff that and very useful. It forced Marco to come tolerably clean.”
“Well, come, that’s something.”
“It’s half an hour to lunch time. How about putting a bit of slap on your pink nose and coming for a brisk walk.”
“Lunch!” said Troy, “and Mr. Reece’s massive small talk. And food! More food!”
“Perhaps the cook will have cut it down to clear soup and a slice of ham. Anyway, come on.”
“All right,” said Troy.
So they went out of doors, where the sun shone, the dark wet trees glittered, the Lake was spangled, and the mountains were fresh, as if, it seemed, from creation’s hand. The morning was alive with bird song, sounds that might have been the voice of the bush itself, its hidden waters, its coolness, its primordial detachment.
They walked round the house to the empty hangar and thence, across the landing ground, to the path through the bush and arrived at the lakeside.
“Wet earth and greenery again,” said Troy. “The best smell there is.”
“The Maori people had a god-hero called Maui. He went fishing, and hauled up the South Island.”
“Quite recently, by the feel of it.”
“Geologically it was, in fact, thrust up from the ocean bed by volcanic action. I’ve no idea,” said Alleyn, “whether it was a slow process or a sudden commotion. It’s exciting to imagine it heaving up all of a sudden with the waters pouring down the flanks of its mountains, sweeping across its plains and foaming back into the sea. But I daresay it was a matter of eons rather than minutes.”
“And you say there are now lots and lots of painters, busy as bees, having a go at”—Troy waved an arm at the prospect— “all that.”
“That’s right. From pretty peeps to competent posters and from factual statements to solemn abstractions. You name it.”
“How brave of them all.”
“Only some of them think so.” Alleyn took her arm. “Some have got pretty near the bones. If things had been different,” he said, “would you have wanted to paint?”
“Not at once. Make charcoal scribbles, perhaps. And after a time make some more with paint. Bones,” said Troy vaguely. “The anatomy of the land. Something might come of it.”
“Shall we see what happens if we follow round the shore?”
“If you like. We’ll either fetch up in the front of the house or get ourselves bushed. After all we are on an island.”
“All right, smarty-pants. Come on.”
A rough track followed the margin of the lake, for the most part clear of the bush but occasionally cutting through it. In places storm water poured across the path. They came to a little footbridge over a deep-voiced creek. Here the bush was dense but farther on it thinned enough to allow glimpses, surprising close at hand, of the west wall of the house. They were walking parallel with the path that skirted the concert chamber. The ground here was soft under their feet.
They walked in single file. Alleyn stopped short and held up his hand. He turned and laid his finger on his lips.
Ahead of them, hidden by the bush, someone was speaking.
The voice was so low, so very quiet that it was almost toneless and quite without a personality. It was impossible to catch what was said or guess at who said it.
Alleyn signaled to Troy to stay where she was and himself moved soundlessly along the path. He was drawing closer to the voice. He remembered that at a point opposite the first window of the concert chamber there was a garden seat, and he fancied the speaker might be sitting on it. He moved on and in another moment or two realized that he should be able to make out the sense of what was said and then that it was said in Italian. At first the phrases slid past incomprehensibly and then he began to tune in.
“—I have acted in this way because of what is being— hinted — suggested by you. All of you. And because when these policemen come you may try—”
Alleyn lost the next phrase or two. There were gaps as if the speaker paused for a reply and none was forthcoming. The voice was raised “—this is why — I have anticipated — I warn you — can go further and if necessary I will. Now. How do you answer? You understand, do you not? I mean what I say? I will act as I have said? Very well. Your answer? Speak up. I cannot hear you.”
Nor could Alleyn. There had been some sort of reply— breathy — short — incomprehensible.
“I am waiting.”
Into the silence that followed a bell-bird, close at hand, dropped his clear remark ending with a derisive clatter. Then followed, scarcely perceptible, a disturbance, an intrusion, nowhere — somewhere— coming closer and louder: the commonplace beat of a helicopter.
Inside the house a man shouted. Windows were thrown open.
“Il elicottero!” exclaimed the voice. There was a stifled response from his companion and sounds of rapid retreat.
“Here are the cops, darling!” said Alleyn.
“Rapture! Rapture! I suppose,” said Troy. “Will you go and meet them?”
“It may be a case of joining in the rush, but yes, I think I’d better.”
“Rory — what’ll be the drill?”
“Unusual, to say the least. I suppose I introduce them to Reece unless he’s already introduced himself, and when that’s effected I’ll hand over my file and remain on tap for questioning.”
“Will you use the studio?”
“I’d prefer the study, but doubt if we’ll get it. Look, my love, after lunch will you take to the studio if it’s available? Or if you can’t stand that anymore, our room? I know you must have had them both, but perhaps you might suffer them again, for a bit. Carmichael will look in and so will I, of course, but I don’t know—”
“I’ll be as right as rain. I might even try a few tentative notes—”
“Might you? Truly? Marvelous,” he said. “I’ll see you round to the front of the house.”